Library Notes
November 4, 2004
By Pansy Hundley, Librarian.
Do you know what I found under my sink the other day? Yep – the dreaded mouse "pill" – a sure sign that there’s a mouse in the house. My life would be much better, much calmer, if these fellers would skip my house and go somewhere else for their daily, and nightly, food. My Killer Kitty having long ago gone on to that great Kitty House in the sky, was not there to help me. I was on my own, as I dug out the mouse trap from storage and put some good, fresh cheese in there, to commit premeditated murder.
I don’t want to hear all the moaning cries about how cute their faces are. They are deadly creatures, as they run across your room and cause you to break both legs, falling off the table you climbed on, fall over something, causing a brain injury as your head strikes the floor, or making another entrance through the wall so that the north wind blows in and you die from pneumonia. Deadly creatures.
With said trap placed strategically under the sink, and checked periodically, from a safe distance, nothing happened. The cheese just sat there, no more sign of Mr. Mouse. But, I knew he must be lurking there somewhere. I continued to watch, to no avail, or I should say, to no mouse. I had a 20-lb. Bag of dog food open. Every time I put my hand down in that bag and grabbed that bowl, I almost held my breath. Sometimes, I’d look in the bag first and make sure the bowl was the only thing in there. If I had reached in that bag and grabbed a mouse, I would have had heart failure right there. I’ve already told you what deadly creatures they are.
After daily checking that trap for quite sometime. After no hole appearing in the dog food sack, I decided I was dealing with a wiley mouse. I drug out the D-con. Time to get down to serious business.
After leaving the deadly D-con in the space underneath the kitchen sink for some time, without any sign of my friend with the long tail having indulged, I’ve about decided that the dangerous beast has learned who he was dealing with and left the premises. Word of mouth – er – mouse, you know. He may have heard my story, "Rat Tales" or thought Killer Kitty was still operating and decided to seek greener, safer pastures. I hope! Perhaps he’ll stay there and it won’t be necessary for me to resort to more drastic measures of deadly force. I can only hope.
As the weather turns cooler and cooler, I could put up some signs, such as "No Rats or Mice Allowed", or "You Rat Fink, Stay Out" or "Trespassing Rodents will be Shot." But, I don’t know that they can read. Evidently not, because they keep eating out of that bag that says "Dog Food". No where on that package does it say that you can use that food for meeces. However, if he eats enough and starts barking, I could maybe find him. BUT – what would I do with him after I found him? That would be like catching him on a sticky trap, and then having to figure the "elimination" problem out.
So, with cooler weather moving in sporadically, I’ll keep the cheese, the mouse trap and the D-con handy. If one of those varmints comes, seeking shelter, comfort and food? He may find the shelter, temporarily, and some dog food. But comfort? Ain't’no way!
Hopefully the mouse problem is taken care of for the present – since he must have decided to vacate the premises. And, if he happens to be hiding in the closet, that will be bad. I’d hate to tear up all of my clothes, trying to give him the room he would have to have, or the room I would have to have, with hopefully the twain never meeting. That’s enough talk about meeces. Let us talk about "Silver Bells", which just happens to be the title of Luanne Rice’s latest book.
"Every year on the first day of December Christopher Byrne traveled from his farm in Nova Scotia to sell his Christmas trees on the streets of Manhattan. It was said that the Cape Breton trees were special, that the northern lights charged the needles with magic. But this year there’d be no cheer for the widower and his twelve-year-old daughter, Bridget.
For New York City had taken Christy’s only son, headstrong sixteen-year-old Danny, who’d run off without a trace save a single postcard bearing a terse, unforgiving message: "I’m doing grand—don’t worry about me." Christy wouldn’t have come to the city at all if it weren’t for the business….and to set up his trees on the corner where he last saw his son, in case Danny came back.
Librarian Catherine Tierney used to love the holidays; the lights, the carols, the nip in the air. She and her husband had always reveled in the spirit of the season, and in sharing their own joy and love with those less fortunate. But after Brian’s death on Christmas Eve three years earlier, the festivities seemed to start too early and last too long.
Just before he died, Brian Tierney told his wife that he’d never leave her, that every year he’d give Catherine a sign. Now the season was here again, a season of separation and sadness, and Catherine wanted to rush through it as quickly as possible.
On the quaint Chelsea street where she lives, Catherine will meet the tree seller from Nova Scotia. Both figured the world had forgotten the true meaning of Christmas. But they hadn’t counted on finding each other, on fate, on second chances…and on a holiday gift of new love and new hope that would last a lifetime."